(We’ve moved from rape culture to death. This is the cheeriest little writing blog ever!
This sonnet probably needs a bit more work, really, but eh. Written in Petrarchan format, because really, fuck Shakespeare.)
I wonder, as the darkness closes in, whether bodies can be haunted
As houses often are, by ghosts, or memories of times long past;
Fading, drifting, like a miasma, like a smog, like the very last
Glimpse of smoke from a fire. When the memory is exhausted,
Will the house collapse, the body die? Or will it continue, a morbid
Shadow of what was, even as the spectre leaves its cast?
Like automatons dancing along the rails or spinning out in the vast
Reaches of space, without a voice, or a person, undaunted.
These are the thoughts that come on me in the night, when all is dark,
And my thoughts turn likewise shadowy, thinking of death and
Other sombre things. I think of Charon and the journey he must embark
On. I think of him, standing there, before a legion of ghosts, holding out his hand…